When my father-in-law moved in, I believed we were helping him. His presence quickly become… When my father-in-law moved in, I believed we were helping him. But his presence eventually became something I never expected, testing my tolerance, marriage, and limitations.
Frank, my father-in-law, was lost when my mother-in-law was hospitalized suddenly. She always did everything for him—cooking, cleaning, even remembering his medicine. He was directionless without her.
“I don’t know what to do with myself,” he said when my husband, Brian, and I visited him a few days after the tragedy. Low, pleasant voice, drooping shoulders.
Brian clasped my hand and gave me the expression that told he was ready to make an impulsive choice I’d have to clean up. He went to his dad and said, “Why don’t you come stay with us for a bit? It’ll beat solitude.”
Frank’s eyes brightened up, and before I could grasp what occurred, he was moving into our guest room with an unsettling number of baggage for a “temporary” stay.
That was fine at first. He looked thankful and cautious about intruding. bit by bit, everything changed.
“Hey, dear,” he said one day during a business Zoom conversation. Can you get me coffee? I lost the pods.”
I said, “They’re right on the counter.”
He laughed, “Yeah, but you know how to work the machine better,” as if I would like this.
“Can you fix me a sandwich?” followed. “Don’t forget my toast in the mornings, I like it golden.” I received a basket of his clothing one day, stating, “I’ll need these for golf tomorrow.” Thanks, daughter.”
Each time, Brian was “too busy” to notice. But my patience? That wore dangerously thin. I wondered how long I could tolerate it.
Thursday night—a night I’ll never forget—was the breaking point. Without asking me, my father-in-law hosted poker night at our place.
“Just a couple of guys, nothing big,” he replied that morning, grinning as he explored the fridge. “We’ll clean. Our presence will be scarcely noticeable.”
Barely notice? The living room became a smokey nest of laughing, chips, and loud discussion by 8 p.m. And I? I balanced food trays and refilled beverages like an unpaid waiter in the kitchen.
His companion said, “Hey, we’re out of beer!” Frank asked me, “Sweetheart,” without up, “Can you grab some from the garage?” Though my blood was boiling, I grabbed the drink.
I almost lost it when another guy touched his glass and remarked, “A little more ice.”
Frank laughed and said, “See?” to Brian as he took his friends out after the game. You should treat women that way.”
I felt slapped by the words. As the knowledge hit, my gut twisted. This was about a habit, not simply poker night. Frank treated my mother-in-law like a servant for years. He taught my hubby to do the same.
The beginning was hardly apparent. “Can you get me a drink while you’re awake?” Brian asked while I wasn’t standing. He’d always been kind and excellent at dividing duties, so I didn’t think much of it. But those modest favors become expectations.
Brian passed by with a dinner dish as I folded clothes one night. The usual sink was his destination, but he left it on the coffee table. “Can you take care of that?” he said without pausing.
Another time, he entered the kitchen as I prepared supper. “Don’t forget I need my blue shirt ironed for tomorrow,” he remarked, kissing my cheek to temper the request.
The end. “No, Brian,” I answered, sternly. I’ve taken it seriously. This must end—you both must realize. I’m neither your maid nor his.”
I left the room feeling certain that things will change for good since the tension was high.
I typed a “rental agreement” on my laptop at the dining table the following morning after a restless night of raging and planning. I wanted strict, no-nonsense regulations without charging Frank rent. If he stayed with us, things would change.
The regulations were simple yet unchangeable:
I prepare everyone a dinner daily. Cook anything extra if desired.
You bring beverages, do laundry, and clean up after meals if you can.
Each person cleans up. Place dishes in the dishwasher, not the sink. The wearer will fold and store the laundry.
You must provide food, beverages, and cleaning for visitors.
This home values mutual respect, no sexism.
Domestic help is required. You live here and help.
I printed it, stapled it, and waited for Frank in the kitchen. I sat there drinking coffee with a hard copy of the guidelines, and he seemed surprised.
“Morning,” he murmured warily, noticing my mood change.
“Morning,” I said, shoving the paper at him. “We must talk.”
“What’s this?” he frowned as he studied the first page.
I answered calmly, “It’s a rental agreement for staying in this house. “These are the future rules.”
Red-faced Frank glanced at me. “Rules? Is this the army? Your visitor!
I snapped, “No.” “You’re no longer guest. You arrived weeks ago. You can’t wait while others serve you since you’re family. This is how it works if you stay.”
Brian entered mid-exchange, yawning and wiping his eyes. He looked between us and said, “What’s going on?”
“Your wife is trying to turn this house into a dictatorship,” Frank remarked, slamming the paper on the table.
Brian scanned the agreement. “Isn’t this a bit… much?” he hesitated.
“No, Brian,” I looked at him. “How much is your father treating me like his maid? Recently, you’ve followed suit. That ends today.”
Room became quiet. Frank seemed ready to burst, and Brian felt torn. My resolve remained unwavering.
“You can either follow the rules,” I replied, rising up, “or find somewhere else to stay.”
Frank started to protest but stopped when he saw I wasn’t kidding. For the first time in weeks, I felt in charge and wouldn’t let go.
Sarah, my mother-in-law, came home from the hospital, making me apprehensive and relieved. I was nervous about how she’d respond to what I’d done and relieved since Frank was a handful.
She sipped my tea on the sofa as I pushed the “rental agreement” across the table. “Sarah,” I said softly, “I need you to see this. I worked on it when Frank was here.”
Reading made her brows furrow and lips clench. She smiled at me knowingly when she reached Rule 5. “Oh, I like this one,” she remarked. Mutual regard. New idea for him.”
I breathed, relieved she wasn’t insulted. I responded, “I know you care deeply about him,” sitting next her. “But Sarah, he’s relied on you too long. Not fair to you. During his presence, I recognized the weight you’ve carried for years.
Her eyes softened, and I saw tiredness. “You’re right,” she whispered. It’s been like this since our wedding. “I thought it was my job.”
I firmly took her hand and stated, “No.” His turn to shine. But also for his sake.
Sarah laughed, shaking her head. “I wish I’d done this years ago.”
Sarah waved the paper at Frank as he entered. “You’ve got work to do, mister,” she remarked, laughing but strong.
Sarah stayed firm while he grumbled about a plot.
I smiled as they entered the kitchen. Sarah felt less alone for the first time.
Brian came behind me and said, “Hey.” You believe he’ll stick to it?
I saw Sarah take Frank to the sink and give him a dish towel. For the first time, he stopped arguing and dried.
I spoke steadily, smiling. “He has no choice. Because we’re following the rules this time.”
